


Kloktober, Oct. 21st: Childhood or Hobbies

by Morpheus626



Series: Lee's Kloktober 2020 [21]
Category: Metalocalypse (Cartoon)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:08:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27145691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morpheus626/pseuds/Morpheus626
Summary: Decided to combine both prompts for this day!Synopsis: If pressed, Pickles would be hesitant to talk much about what he does outside of the band and partying. The downside, of course, is that that’s all anyone thinks he does. But it isn’t, or at least, it didn’t used to be that way.TW: Familial neglect/mentions of a bad childhood re: Pickles. Mentions of drinking and drug use as a coping method. Also a mention of hunting, but brief and with no real detail in regards to it, but that’s a trigger for me so I wanted to note it here too in case it’s a trigger for anyone else as well.
Series: Lee's Kloktober 2020 [21]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1948486
Kudos: 4





	Kloktober, Oct. 21st: Childhood or Hobbies

“You have to have another hobby,” Murderface said. “Everyone hasch hobbies.”

“I...smoke,” Pickles said hesitantly. 

“That’sch not a hobby!” Murderface shouted. “What a weirdo. Not any other hobbiesch, juscht drinkin’ and smokin’ and nothing else!” 

He knew he should ignore it. Murderface was in a shit mood, that was all. 

And he did have hobbies. Or he had, at least. 

He walked out of the living room as Murderface ranted on, though no one else in the room was listening to him, all of them busy with their own...

Fuck. Their own hobbies. 

Toki with his figurines and model airplanes and shit. 

Skwisgaar with his guitar, which was technically also his job, but one could easily argue that for as much work as he put into it outside of practice and concerts, it was also a hobby. 

Murderface had his weird murder memorabilia and war stuff, and complaining (even if he didn’t want to admit to that as one of his hobbies.) 

Nathan had a few different things, now that Pickles thought about it. The dude liked to fish, for fuck’s sake! 

What did he have, anymore?

He smoked and drank whatever he could get his hands on. He drummed, obviously, but not to the extent outside of work like Skwisgaar with his guitar. He...

“What the fuck do I do?” he muttered as he slammed his bedroom door shut. “I...do stuff.” 

But as he looked around his room, nothing jumped out at him. 

Hunting came to mind. But at the same time, it wasn’t something he did necessarily for fun. He did it because it was something to do; something that most people were entertained to see he could do while completely fucking plastered and high as a kite. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d gone out and hunted on his own; he only went out if some big shot celebrity called and requested he come with them, so they could watch him shoot better drunk than they could sober. 

To him then, that didn’t really count as much of a hobby, if he didn’t enjoy it and didn’t do it for himself. 

If he went back only so far, he could include makeup, and costuming. He had been the mastermind behind most of it, for Snakes N’ Barrels. 

But all the same, those clothes now stayed in the back of his closet, and a lot of his makeup had dried up or been tossed away ages ago. Sure, he had a few palettes and eyeliner sticks, but nothing like what he’d had before. 

So not that as a hobby, anymore. Not really. 

But going back further wasn’t any better. 

That hurt to think about. The things his parents had shamed him or made fun of him for being interested in (like puzzles. Who the fuck made fun of a ten-year-old for liking jigsaw puzzles?) The things his brother had done his damnedest to make him feel bad about, or flat out taken from him (he’d painted for a bit, until Seth burned all his pieces and canvases. His parents had yelled at him for having them out where Seth could get to them, as if a fuckin’ teenager couldn’t control themselves to leave that sort of stuff alone if it wasn’t theirs.) 

He didn’t even have any of that stuff leftover from when he was a kid. No half-finished puzzles to go back and complete. No half-finished canvases to tackle again. 

He dropped onto his bed, but only for a moment. 

He had eyeliner sticks, and he had spare paper. It wasn’t paint and canvas, but it was something. 

And with the way Murderface was (still, loudly) ranting, no one would come to bother him. There would be no one to make fun of him if he’d lost his touch for art, to ask why he was even bothering to do this. 

Truthfully, he realized it wasn’t just because of Murderface. He had triggered the thoughts about it, but as he worked, trying to make the right lines find purchase on the page, he knew it was more than that. 

He just hadn’t wanted to think about it until now. Still didn’t want to, really. But considering the alcohol and drugs only ever numbed him so far (not very much, after all the years of use), maybe this wasn’t the worst idea as another outlet, another thing to do. 

A hobby. 

If worse came to worse, he at least had control over it all this time, no one else did. He could burn or shred or do whatever he wanted to the drawings, whenever he pleased. 

For now, he put the sketch of himself and the guys, based off of a picture on his bedside table, on the top of his dresser. 

It wasn’t bad, and he looked forward to getting better. 


End file.
